


An Afternoon's Adventure

by Persiflager



Category: Lord Peter Wimsey - Dorothy L. Sayers, Miss Marple - Agatha Christie
Genre: Case Fic, Crossover, F/F, Misses Clause Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 05:47:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2801798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persiflager/pseuds/Persiflager
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Excuse me, your Grace, but there’s a lady here to see you called Miss Marple,” said Alice, with a deferential bob in Mrs Travers’ direction. “Says she’s an old friend of yours and that it’s urgent.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anabel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anabel/gifts).



EXTRACTS FROM THE DIARY OF HONORIA LUCASTA, DOWAGER DUCHESS OF DENVER

10 January. - Back in London and glad. Ahasuerus celebrated by bringing Franklin a dead mouse.

Peter has fled to Italy, which seems to me like an over-reaction but then Helen has been particularly awful this year, what with being cross with Gerald and Saint-George and not wanting to quarrel in front of the neighbours. (Have resolved to be more charitable to Helen this year, as she is a good person really and not very happy, but goodness isn’t really a very attractive quality in itself without some human feeling to soften its edges). Helen does at least seem to have picked up that it’s her fault but appears to be ignoring it, which is probably best course of action. Imagine Peter would have been happier spending Christmas gallivanting somewhere abroad with Bunter (does Bunter gallivant? He must be able to but it’s rather difficult to picture, like trying to see the women’s faces in the puzzle when you’ve just seen the candlestick) but am selfishly glad he came. 

Peter’s old enough to do what he likes, including marrying who he likes, and anyway one can’t really know anything about someone from what you read in the newspapers as Gerald ought to know. Helen managed to imply, and this was really rather impressive, that she (Miss Vane, not Helen) was both a man-eater and a Lesbian, but then Helen has never been a terribly logical thinker. 

Enough of that. Everyone is well and that’s the important thing, and little Peter continues to be adorable and not at all spoiled (except by me, but that’s a grandmother’s prerogative).

 

12 January. - A virtuous day of letters. Franklin a great help in organising me - so easy to get side-tracked and spend all day rambling in one, and then more come the next day and before you know it you’re buried in them, especially at this time of year.

There really isn’t anything nicer than a long letter from an old friend. It’s funny, some of the people I exchange letters with at this time of year I haven’t seen in over twenty years, but I still think they know me better than anyone.

Take Jane – forty years at least since we met at that finishing school in Florence, and we’ve met only a handful of times since, but when I read her letters her voice is as clear as if she was sitting next to me.

Jane always has the most marvellous stories about village life and all the adventures she has, which inevitably seem to involve getting caught up in some scandal or other but dear Jane has always had a nose for that (as that dreadful M. Emanuel found out). Such a nice, clear, logical way of setting things out too - not at all like her nephew, whose books are so dreadfully florid. 

Must remember to recommend Miss Vane’s books to her when I write back – I think Jane would approve.

 

13 January.- Went to St Peter’s in Vauxhall today to hear the Archbishop preach the sermon for Candlemas - such a beautiful service, the church looking so nice in the winter sun and the choir sang Mr Noble’s new set of canticles very well. Cosmo spoke quite movingly on the subject of church unity - must remember to add a prayer for togetherness tonight.

Stayed for tea at the vicarage afterwards and bumped into Peter’s Miss Climpson, who apparently normally attends St Saviour’s in Pimlico but made an exception for the Archbishop. Miss C the spirit of churchly rectitude, glowing like the candles after such an uplifting service, and also full to bursting with all the latest gossip. Not only did they have an escaping bank robber run to earth in the church grounds last night, but the vicar’s wife had contrived to upset the organist so badly this morning that he refused to accompany the choir for their rehearsal until one of the curates managed to talk him round.

Offered Miss C a lift home in the car but she was staying on for a Working Party, which always sounds like it should be oxymoronic - is that the right word? ask Franklin - but isn’t really, because work like that can be jolly when you’re doing it with a group and miserable if you’re stuck with it by yourself. Came home to finish writing letters. 

Read first two chapters of Luke before bed and thought about Simeon, waiting all that time to meet our Lord so that he could finally depart - such a melancholy sort of gladness, especially at this time of year when the sun sets so early. Makes one feel rather old.


	2. Chapter 2

Honoria Lucasta, Dowager Duchess of Denver. was going over the household accounts with her London housekeeper when Alice the parlourmaid popped her head round the sitting room door.

“Excuse me, your Grace, but there’s a lady here to see you called Miss Marple,” said Alice, with a deferential bob in Mrs Travers’ direction. “Says she’s an old friend of yours and that it’s urgent.” 

The Duchess felt the thrill of turning over a new page in an adventure novel and seeing the dashing hero swing into view on the end of a rope. “Very well,” she said briskly, scrawling her signature at the bottom of the page with a flourish. “That will be all, Mrs Travers.”

Pulse racing with unaccustomed vigour, the Duchess trotted along to the front parlour where she found Jane Marple, large as life and twice as neat, perched primly on the edge of an armchair with her hands in her lap and a handbag by her feet. Her fair hair was now quite white, fluffed round her head like a dandelion.

“Jane!”

“Honoria, dear,” said Jane, rising to her feet with a smile. They embraced, Honoria kissing Jane’s soft dry cheek with affection and catching the faintest scent of lavender.

“So, what brings you to London?” the Duchess asked when they’d both sat back down. “And would you like some tea?”

“Thank you, but I don’t think we have time,” said Jane, looking serious. That look was one the Duchess remembered well - that determined expression, and Jane’s straight back, and her clever, clever blue eyes. “It’s about the vicar’s wife in your letter - I’m afraid she’s in danger.”

The Duchess blinked. “At St Peter’s?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to go there right now?”

“I think that would be best.”

“Then I shall call for a car,” said the Duchess, rising to her feet. “And I think we’d better collect some help on the way.”

…

Franklin drove them round to Miss Climpson’s Pimlico flat where, fore-warned by a quick telephone call, Miss Climpson appeared after only a couple of minutes waiting.

“Good morning, your Grace,” she said, pink-cheeked from rushing down the stairs, as she climbed into the front passenger seat of the car and settled her large brown handbag on her lap.

“Good morning, Miss Climpson,” said the Duchess cheerfully as Franklin pulled out and set course for Vauxhall. “This is Miss Jane Marple. Jane, this is Miss Climpson.”

“How do you do,” they chorused at each other.

“Miss Climpson,” said Miss Marple. “What can you tell us about the vicar’s wife at St Peter’s?”

“Mrs Shuttleworth?” said Miss Climpson, blinking. “Well, I can’t say that I know her very well, as I usually go to St Saviour’s, it being much closer of course-”

“Of course,” said Miss Marple.

“- but I know that they came to the parish three years ago from Headingley. No children, married seven years, she’ll be forty in May, her father was a vicar, she has a younger brother our in South Africa, and she grew up in Kent.”

Miss Marple nodded. “Is she well-liked?”

“Oh _yes_ ,” said Miss Climpson, “I’ve never heard a bad word said against her. That’s why everyone was so surprised when she upset Mr Griffiths, especially as he’s usually such a calm man, not like some organists I’ve known who had _frightful_ tempers.”

The Duchess, being an intelligent woman as well as an avid reader of detective stories, made an educated guess. “Jane,” she said, “are you suggesting that she might have upset him on purpose?”

“I’m reminded,” said Miss Marple, looking out of the car window at the grey, frosty streets, “of Sir Hennings, who, when his wife arrived home unexpectedly early from her holiday, told her immediately how fat she’d got in the hope that she’d storm out of the house and give him a chance to escort his mistress safely away without being caught. Not the cleverest plan, of course - she threw him out instead and found the mistress upstairs hiding in the guest bedroom - but the sort of thing one might come up with if one was panicking.”

“She - the vicar’s wife, I mean, not your Sir Hennings’s mistress - might have been upset about something else,” pointed out the Duchess.

“In which case I think it’s likely that someone would have had an idea what she was upset about, and Miss Climpson would already know,” said Miss Marple with an apologetic glance at Miss Climpson. “People do talk about that sort of thing, I’m afraid - our vicar shouted at his cook last week, and everyone knew it was because his wife had invited her brother to stay without asking him.”

Nobody in the car contradicted her.

“Now, about this robber,” said Miss Marple, clapping her hands together. “I understand from the newspaper that the only member of the gang they managed to catch was found in the grounds on Saturday night. Is that correct?”

“That’s right,” said Miss Climpson, leaning forward with bright, excited eyes. “The caretaker told us all about it. He’d actually come through the church and they thought he might have hidden the money somewhere inside, but the police searched it top to bottom and couldn’t find anything, so he must have got rid of it earlier.” She looked at Miss Marple. “You don’t think-”

“I think,” said Miss Marple, looking between the two of them with a grave expression, “that if the money is still in the church, then some very nasty people are going to come looking for it.”

…

St Peter’s was a beautiful Victorian church next to the old pleasure garden (now closed). Franklin parked on a side street and the three ladies climbed out of the car to embark on their mission.

“I think you’d better lead the way, dear,” said Miss Marple to the Duchess as they approached the Vicarage, their breath forming clouds in the cold air. “And don’t take no for an answer.”

A maid answered the door and, after hearing the Duchess’s title, led them to a bright sitting room at the side of the house where they found Mrs Shuttleworth darning socks.

“Hello!” she said, smiling with recognition at the Duchess and Miss Climpson. She had dark bobbed hair and intelligent eyes. “Please excuse the socks; I wasn’t expecting company.”

The Duchess introduced Miss Marple and they all sat down. Mrs Shuttleworth had the well-trained polite expression of one who is used to receiving unexpected visits and requests. She was probably less accustomed to being accused of being a criminal accomplice, and the Duchess suddenly felt ridiculous for having come on such a slim pretext. It had all seemed so plausible when Miss Marple was explaining her theory; now, in the cheerfully well-kept room with a faint smell of baking coming from the kitchen, it all seemed rather far-fetched.

Miss Marple appeared to have no such qualms. “I’m afraid you’re going to think me a silly old woman,” she said, prompting a polite demurral from Mrs Shuttleworth. “That’s alright, I don’t mind that. But I should like to tell you an idea I have.”

Mrs Shuttleworth set her sewing down on her lap and arranged her features into an expression of polite attention.

“I think,” said Miss Marple thoughtfully, “it started when you arrived at the church on Sunday. You recognised the description of the man they’d caught in the grounds as your younger brother, who isn’t in South Africa at all but has fallen in with a bad crowd. Not the sort of thing you’d tell people.”

Mrs Shuttleworth’s eyebrows rose.

“When you heard about the missing money, you remembered a game from your childhood when he used to hide things inside the organ pipes, with string or sticky tape. You scared the organist off so that you had a chance to check, then you took the parcel you found and hid it somewhere else.”

“Your Grace,” said Mrs Shuttleworth to the Duchess, “I really don’t think-”

“Oh, I’m not suggesting that you took it for yourself,” said Miss Marple, shaking her head. “That would be wicked. But I think that, perhaps, you might have wanted to save him from getting into trouble. And now you don’t know what to do with it.” She leaned forward. “His friends are going to come looking for it, you know.”

Mrs Shuttleworth sat very still, staring at Miss Marple. “I’m afraid that you must be confused,” she said in the end. “Where am I supposed to have put all this money?”

“I don’t know,” said Miss Marple. “I’m sure you thought of somewhere very clever. I was hoping that you would tell us.”

Feeling awkward and a little embarrassed, as if she’d just watched a magician reach into his top hat and fail to pull anything out, the Duchess looked away from Mrs Shuttleworth’s disbelieving face and Miss Marple’s calm one only to be taken aback by Miss Climpson, who had her eyes closed and was frowning in concentration.

Mrs Shuttleworth put her sewing down and rose to her feet. “I’m sorry, but I think you’d better-”

“The kneeler!” exclaimed Miss Climpson ecstatically, like a Methodist at a revival meeting. “You put it in one of the kneelers! I remember that Mrs Dawson was going to fix the embroidery but you insisted on taking it off her. Oh, that _is_ clever,” she finished with an approving nod.

Mrs Shuttleworth looked at Miss Climpson for a long time, then sat back down and started to cry.

…

The Duchess managed to get Charles to come down and collect the money after she explained that Mrs Shuttleworth had just found it. 

“She just found it,” he repeated over the phone, sounding dubious.

“That’s right,” said the Duchess firmly.

After all the excitement she was feeling quite tired and in need of refreshment, so insisted in taking Miss Climpson and Miss Marple to tea at Claridges. They then deposited a giddy Miss Climpson back at her flat before driving Miss Marple to Paddington station.

“Why don’t you stay a bit longer?” said the Duchess as Franklin expertly negotiated her way through the evening traffic. “This is silly - I haven’t seen you in twenty years and now you’re rushing off.”

“Because the 6.02 is a very good train and gets me back in time for dinner.” Miss Marple looked out of the window as they drove past St Paul’s. White flakes of snow were just beginning to flutter down out of the sky, giving the landscape an undefined, dream-like appearance.

The Duchess looked at Miss Marple and considered two things – that, really, it was just as likely that Mrs Shuttleworth had had a row with her husband as that she was hiding stolen money. And that clever people could sometimes, in certain ways, be rather stupid.

“Why haven’t we seen each other more often? You’re not far away, after all.”

Miss Marple looked surprised at the question. “You have your family,” she said. “And I have my life in St. Mary Mead.”

“My children are all grown up and have children of their own. I’m an old lady to them. You make me feel nineteen again.”

Miss Marple looked hesitant for the first time since she’d appeared in the Duchess’s drawing room. “Florence was a very long time ago. I didn’t think-”

“So we’ll go again.” The Duchess took Miss Marple’s gloved hand in her own and squeezed it. “Jane. Don’t be a silly goose. Say you’ll come away with me.”


	3. Chapter 3

HELEN, DUCHESS OF DENVER, TO LADY GRUMMIDGE

My dear Marjorie,

Yes, the 20th will be fine. We are so looking forward to having you to stay. The Hunt Ball is going to be on the 22nd after all so that will work out perfectly.

I have to say, it will be a relief to talk to someone sensible for a change. I have just heard that my mother-in-law is going off to Italy with some old school-friend of hers and doesn’t know when she will be coming back. Gerald refuses to talk her out of it, saying that she’s old enough to do what she likes, when you’d think he’d have the sense to see how impossible it is. Peter refuses to investigate this so-called friend (who none of us have ever heard of before – thank goodness the Dower House is entailed) and was really very rude about it. Mary of course is no help at all.

I fail to see why merely being elderly entitles one to have foolishness dismissed as ‘eccentricity’, but I am apparently in the minority. No-one appears to be concerned how it will look to have the Dowager Duchess of Denver running off to the Continent like a schoolgirl with a pash. It really is very hard being the only person in this family who is considerate of others.

Thank you for the advice about distemper. The dogs are doing well.

Looking forward to seeing you on the 20th,  
Yours affectionately,  
HELEN DENVER


End file.
